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No—though no glory be to gain
From vengeance on a woman ta'en,
Yet he that rids the world of guilt
May claim the praise of blood well spilt:
'Twere joy to satiate righteous ire,
And slake my country's funeral fire.'
Thus was I raving, past control,
In aimless turbulence of soul,
When sudden dawning on the night
(Ne'er had I known her face so bright)
My mother flashed upon my sight,
Confessed a goddess, with the mien
And stature that in heaven are seen:
Reproachfully my hand she pressed,
And thus from roseate lips addressed:
'My son, what cruel wrongs excite
Your wrath to such pernicious height?
What mean you by this madness? where
Left you that love to me you bear?
And will you not at least inquire
What fate betides your time-worn sire?
If your Creusa still survive?
If young Ascanius be alive?
All these are trembling as for life,
With Grecian bands around them rife,
And, but for me, had sunk o'erpowered
By flame, or by the sword devoured.
Not the loathed charms of Sparta's dame,
Nor Paris, victim of your blame,—
No, 'tis the Gods, the Gods destroy
This mighty realm, and pull down Troy.
Behold! for I will purge the haze
That darkles round your mortal gaze
And blunts its keenness—mark me still,
Nor disobey your mother's will—